Like the invisible coyotes that streak through the woodsto the fringes of our town, a bawling wind of voices.They’ve come too close, the village complains.Perhaps. I’ve heard the squeals of chipmunkscaught in the fur-fire. People plug their ears,follow their dogs out at night. But still, I openmy window to their shrill, persistent haunting,fall asleep to the blessed assuranceof a pulsing, moon-ticked packloping over the fallen leaves in the darkness,working together for some kind of good.